I’ve been avoiding writing lately.
Which means I’ve been avoiding confronting myself.
Instead of holding insights about my growth and mental health close to my humming chest,
I’ve been buying more things, watching more Netflix – anything to keep my gaze averted.
This is the complexity of being these days.
Knowing that, for me, I have to pull out any scrap of paper and write everything down.
Scribbles. Curses. Questions. Lyrics.
K n o w i n g that my peace is on the other side of that paper.
Waiting to hold me in ink-stained hands.
But still I fight it. Fight what’s good. Healthy.
Indulge instead on old patterns that feel comfortable (but are simply numbing).
I look at the journal on my nightstand
and then I look away.
I’ve been wondering where the line is between discipline and rest
Is it even a line?
Maybe more like crosshairs out of focus.
A couple of dark weeks ago I confused depression for being powerless.
It was a dizzying stretch of days
every inch of confidence and self-assurance
in my wobbly brain.
It was noticeable. Friends gently listened, confused, too.
The isolation of confusion and doubt. The heavy weight of what seemed wrong – projecting it onto anything I could reach.
Very soon after, though, everything started to come together.
Like rising bread in a warm oven. Comfort and sustenance that I had spent weeks mixing and shaping; building up into a simple masterpiece.
I find myself wide-eyed (with myself) too often. How did it actually work out well?
My anxious brain searches for the thousands of other shoes to drop and wearily considers that good things can happen to me, too.
As I get older, I’ve realized I have an extreme detachment to the joy that follows anything good. I can’t sit and bathe in that sunshine – my brain refuses to trust the opportunity.
It’s a physical act of rebellion against my programming to stay open and accept without skepticism.
Finding my way back to words – to understanding piece by piece – has made me more conscious of what am I focused on?